Sex, Poetry.

My notion of a poem
Is that perfect moment when
Lucidity and Ecstasy
are coupled in perfect contraction
Of word and muscle.

The Sultans of Swing

The songs that I listen to have grown old
The singers have faded.
But it seems that I do not have the heart for anything new.
Any such wishes are merely an affectation
An attempt to appear less jaded
Than I have become. I am sold
On the idea of decadence. The old queen
Who demanded youth at her gatherings.
But was secretly hoarding even the cobwebs
Of every light and prop and lyric of every scene
Of every old video in a new DVD.
But was secretly singing The Sultans of Swing.

How much poetry passes me by

How much poetry passes me by
Clever words drop and die on the tram tracks
And an alcoholic tide carries them away
And among the lines of code
And within the wilderness of home
And crushed beneath the priorities of work
And calls
And emails
And deadlines to be met
How much poetry passes me by
How much poetry is dead.

No one notices, they walk on by
Trampling my poetry under foot.
It is dead, I cry, but no one notices
They walk on by.

It is tame, I know, to cry for those choices
That I have lost out of weakness
Or fear of lack and the voices
That said I was wrong.
But it remains thus, this is my choice
And I must try
And be strong and not cry
Just because this much poetry passes me by.

Ascetic Eyes

He has ascetic eyes
And his only vice
Is scotch, but his drinking
Is discreet and does not disguise
His ascetic eyes.

There is a little gladness in me

There is a little gladness in me
At small things, routine fare,
Clichés even,
The smell of coffee in my mother's home,
Hot Chocolate. Clothes fragrant and soft from
The washing machine. Ginger tea. See:

The thing is, there is a little gladness in me
At a stolen cigarette in the rain,
A peppery cocktail.
The hint of mint on the lips of a kiss,
New sweaters. The cold and glamour of
An anticipated country. See:

The thing is, there is a little gladness in me
A little mushroom of gratitude
A little truffle of joy
A little feeling of camaraderie
With a wonderful boy. Even my saddest memory
Has lost its old melancholy. See:

The thing is, there is a little gladness in me.

When to write poetry

Poetry should be attempted when you are tired
And unable to think of the right word
And a clever line is tantalisingly out of reach.

Poetry should be attempted when your mind has been
Shut down, even while the computer is still on
And tomorrow's meeting has taken on the mien
Of a monstrous spreadsheet.

Poetry should be attempted in the midst of a week's grime
When you haven't had time to clean and the weekly help hasn't been in
And the nightmare pile of dirty clothes assumes towering proportions
And the rain only adds to your sense of ill usage and injustice
Because now the clothes will never dry.

Poetry should be attempted in the humdrumming noise
Of the inside voice
That will yell at you
To change that bulb
Write that mail
Call that angry friend.

Poetry should be attempted in the mundane clauses
Of everyday contracts
That demand you sleep
And eat and work
Because otherwise poetry
Would never be attempted.

Social Contracts

In the precipitate rush of the Everyday
We converge
Incessantly.
At traffic lights,
At the gym,
At the food,
At our collective computers and coffees to
Reassure ourselves that we are indeed
Bound for a place
And a time
And a life
That is worth the constant smell and sight and sound
Of the Other.

Certainty

We have stripped Life
Of her mystery and found that she is beautiful
In her nakedness.
Earlier she was annoyingly coy and filled
Us with the urge
To slap her.